


Full Throttle

by Varjo



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Author doesn't drive though, Crowley knew Jim Morrison, Fast Cars, Inspired by Music, Motorcycles, One Shot, Reckless Driving, Song: Queen of the Highway (The Doors), Whyever not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:01:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28070592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Varjo/pseuds/Varjo
Summary: War and Crowley race each other on the autobahn.That's all.Posted by friendly request.
Comments: 18
Kudos: 5





	Full Throttle

Why couldn’t every day be like this?

It was seldom that the demon attained such relaxation as right now, behind his Bentley’s steering wheel, beneath a clear blue, if already darkening sky, warm inside and windy outside, and when the motorway was as sparsely populated as right now, allowing him to floor the gas without much thought being spared to other motorists. It was a bit as if he had lowered a protective layer between himself and the rest of the world, allowing him to watch and take everything in, but not participate or be touched – and occasionally that was all that was needed.

He had settled in the driver’s seat, head inclined backwards – almost drowsing, only eyeing the asphalt in front of him out of the corner of his eye, one hand on the wheel, the other one hanging out of the window. His sunglasses had shifted down his nose, but that was okay. He was alone, he was undisturbed, nothing and nobody was here to taint his high spirits.

It was days like this that could almost make you forget all that Heaven-Hell-rubbish, the antagonisms and guidelines and prohibitions, leave them all behind.

Not even the other drivers could spoil this day for him…

Of course, also the fact that he had fed a brand-new and untainted (untransformed, as of yet) cassette to his Bentley’s tape deck ameliorated his spirits. No Queen for him – not today. He had found this very cassette on a flea market that a certain _someone_ had dragged him along to – as he was wont to do, occasionally – and even seeing it, turning it about in his hands, had made exciting, prickling recollections return to the forefront of his mind, so he had purchased it. (A honest purchase, of course; Aziraphale wouldn't have let him hear the end of it if he had scammed the salesperson.) Robby Krieger’s jumpy guitar plucking just ushered in track nine, and Crowley silently moved his lips to match the words, “ _She was a princess, queen of the highway…_ ”*

He had noticed something a couple of moments ago; something garish, a scarlet red eyesore. A biker nurturing a similarly breakneck driving style, donning a bright red overall and a bright red helmet, riding a bright red motorbike. Not even the visor disturbed that unity. The biker had passed him by, slowed down for a moment next to the Bentley’s driver side window and turned their head to look at Crowley, but he had not paid any attention to them. He had given an understated, little smile, not even turning to glance at them, but not bestowed one second more of his attention on the biker.

Why was he now thinking back to them? Well, perhaps it was because they made a quite obviously illegal U-turn some yards up ahead to approach again in the wrong direction (horns were blaring for all it was worth, horns galore, the biker didn’t pay any mind) and swished by his passenger side without even slowing.

And gone again.

The other drivers’ honking followed the motorcyclist like the ripples followed a boat's hull.

_“No-one could save her… save the blind tiger…”*_

Jim… Crowley had spent the one or the other not-quite-sober evening with Jim Morrison, phasing in and out of consciousness, back then, in the early seventies. He had alternated between pitying the musician, being a little unsettled and yet utterly fascinated by him and feeling inspired. Jim Morrison hadn’t appeared to be the same man for two days straight; he had been volatile and careening, one day vulnerable, then hurtful, lashing out again, and yet (where was the contradiction?) such a tender, creative soul that Crowley sometimes wondered how he’d managed as far as he had. He could barely suppress a shiver at the thought where Azrael might have delivered his old friend to. None of the two options seemed to really suit the artist and his state of mind.

And yet he had to smirk as the next line of lyrics was sung, _“He was a monster, black, dressed in leather…”*_

There was a steadily swelling whirring and howling in the back of his head…

 _“She was a princess,”*_ he muttered, checking the rear-view mirror and seeing the knight in crimson armour and their roaring scarlet steel steed approaching again, their way meandering between taste- and personality-less cars without them ever slowing down for even a second. Biker and motorbike seemed to be downright conjoined where they touched; it seemed unthinkable that anything, and be it the laws of physics, should ever divide them.

_Queen of the highway._

Upon reaching the Bentley’s driver side, the biker finally lowered their gear a little – hardly noticeably since they and Crowley seemed to have similar opinions about speed limits – but this time, they remained there until the demon turned his head to acknowledge them, raising a questioning brow behind his sunglasses, now sitting proper on his nose’s bridge again.

The biker was more lying than sitting on their pristine, seemingly brand-new motorbike which was steered one-handed, much as the Bentley; the long hair peeking out from under the helmet was only a shade or two darker than the rest of the ensemble. Despite the barriers between them (visor, space, car window, sunglasses) the demon felt how he and the biker locked eyes. It was playful and yet challenging; it itched and prickled in the back of his head, the back of his neck, and down his whole spine.

Crowley could imagine the biker’s grin as they indicated to the street in front of them with a nodding head movement. At first, Crowley felt rejection on the tip of his tongue – you just drive, stranger, I am merely a normal demon, hardly even at home on this planet, and not really interested to pit my car against your machine – but then, the prickling and tickling became overpowering, and for the moment, Crowley couldn’t imagine anything more engaging, more refreshing, lively, than the biker’s challenge.

His hand twitched toward the gear shift.

_Let’s see what’s still in you, old lady…_

The Bentley surged forward and tires squealed as Crowley floored the gas pedal; the booming of the engine going into gear, mostly overlaying The Doors, was music to his ears. An inane grin tugged at his mouth corners as, beside him, the motorcycle’s engine's roar made the very concrete, let alone his Bentley's windows, tremble. He used a little miracle energy to make sure nobody would obstruct their way today, not this time – but that was fine since Crowley had been right. This felt as liberating as the first deep breath of earthly air he had drawn, all these centuries back.

The street was flying beneath the spinning wheels on the Bentley. The contestants rushed through turns, raced over straight stretches of road, pushed other drivers aside or artfully avoided them, cast mocking looks at each other. Their surroundings, as well as the other motorists passed them by as hardly describable blurs of colour; occasionally the demon thought he’d soon reach the speed of sound, leave behind the roar of the engine as well as the chords of the music. Wind howled, horns blared, scared and furious shouts rang out, but nothing would ever stop him… never again.

The biker seemed to be effortlessly able to hold their own against Crowley and the Bentley. Even more: much like a high-spirited little foal, they hopped around the black car, appeared at one side, then the other one, rushed ahead and fell back again, passed through Crowley’s field of vision and sometimes rushed by so closely that any mortal driver would probably have got gooseflesh, fearing for scratches in their finish or injury to the biker's knees. They rode their bike with a confidence and recklessness that made Crowley doubt they could be mortal – but, what else might they be? Crowley reckoned he would have sensed another demon around, apart from the fact that he couldn’t make himself believe any demon even knew what a motorcycle was, let alone could ride one; and an angel? One could curl up in laughter at the idea of an angel even approaching a motorbike.

Crowley felt his world restrict itself to what he could see through his windshield during that wild hunt; nothing was important, nothing even existed save the steering wheel between his fingers, the vibrating metal around him, the pedals beneath his feet, the rapidly spinning tires and the hot, almost charred asphalt beneath them. The air in the driver’s carriage was hot and stuffy, and yet it all felt so… liberating.

In the end, the biker lingered in front of the old-timer, within a safe distance, but still up ahead, possibly just to deride him a bit more; Crowley thought he got the message and slowed down a little – not, however, far enough for it to be called law-abiding or even possible for a car of this age, make and model – in order to follow the crimson biker. Similar to them, he now also meandered between other motorists instead of nudging them to move out of his way, making use of every littlest opening. The high was so hypnotic that Crowley, for a long time, had no idea and no care for where he was being led; only as the stranger stopped their vehicle with a swift swing and some screeching of rubber against concrete, only then he lifted out of his trance and tried to look around, to get an approximate idea of where they were.

He would almost have pulled a disappointed face.

The biker had led them to a parking lot belonging to a visibly run-down, old biker- or trucker joint, looking dim and threatening from the outside already. The windows were wide open, and apart from thin clouds of cigarette smoke, bangs and roars of tasteless music issued from them. Crowley ground his teeth; but he decided to be a demon of honour and not take off immediately. Making a much more reasonable mileage now, he rolled his car onto the lot and ostentatiously chose a space at the far end while the biker climbed off their vehicle and made to remove their helmet.

He parked – making a show out of carefulness and precision – and only as the Bentley was exactly parallel to the markings, he shut down the engine and clambered out of the car.

The biker – a woman, showing a broad smile with clean white teeth, and undiminished challenge in her shimmering eyes – leant against her bike’s saddle with crossed arms and her hairdo a little flat from the helmet as she watched him approach. Something about her unsettled Crowley, now that he was looking at her in peace and quiet and calm – but since he couldn’t tell what exactly it was and there seemed to be no danger (no infernal influence, for one) he dared not stop his progress.

“You lost,” she greeted him, and the demon snorted.

“Please,” he countered, “some things deserve to be handled with calm and time – and you don’t force an old and noble vehicle like mine to do more than it can, and reasonably would.”

For a few moments, the interlocutors measured each other in silence. Crowley tried to read something malicious out of the biker’s smiling, lipstick-red mouth, but he failed.

“Nice machine,” he finally said, inclining his head respectfully, although his knowledge about motorcycles was limited.

“A compliment I can only return,” the woman replied, blinking heavily since she had to look in the direction of the slowly setting sun to look at Crowley’s face. “A 1930s model, if I am not mistaken?”

“1926,” Crowley corrected, his chest swelling with pride.

“An original I would assume?”

“As original as you or me.” _I’ve had it from new. It’s never been anyone else’s. It may have its quirks (and a penchant for Queen that someone, frankly, should get checked out one of these days) but then, don’t we all?_

“And – anything done with it? Any tuning or upgrades? You can be honest with me, I won’t tell.”

Crowley smacked his lips, striking a pose and shoving his hands into his pant pockets. “I really wonder what it is that you’d want to upgrade with this car, lady.”

A tiny tip of tongue showed between the lady’s lips and teeth as her grin broadened – but only for a moment. “Carmine Zuigiber,” she introduced herself, finally getting off her charger for good, “Carmine will do. Let’s go in, I’ll buy you a beer or two and we can discuss our vehicles, or vehicles in general, a bit more.”

This time, however, Crowley took a cautious half-step back. “Anthony J. Crowley – and thank you so much for the invitation, but I think I’ll have to pass. I don’t think this’ll be my environment exactly… I am more interested in the… the nice things in life, you see.”

 _She was a princess_ *, he remembered. _Queen of the highway._ *

“Oh.” It was not an ‘oh’ that indicated ‘I understand;’ it sounded much more like she wanted to say, ‘I see the baby’s allowed out of his room now.’ “The nice things… if you say so I guess. Well, if you’re certain… then here’s to next time. We’ll certainly meet again, after all, the motorways are long and the days are many.” She winked at him before turning toward the bar.

Crowley stayed rooted in place. Stared at her back. He knew what he should do: return to the Bentley, get in, close the door, start the engine, hope that Jim Morrison hadn’t morphed into Freddie Mercury by now, and drive home, putting this encounter as a footnote to the endless diary of his immortal existence.

Something, however, urged him to stay…

Giving in to this very part, the demon scrambled after Carmine and reciprocated the playful smile she caught him up with. So many he had got to know and let go again – more or less willingly – but this one he wouldn’t pass on. Not until having had a nice chat with her.

 _Queen of the highway._ *

“Good decision,” she commended while opening the bar’s door for him. “So… what do you do with your time if you’re not on the motorway, chasing your perfect vintage car over it?”

**Author's Note:**

> All lines marked * and italicised are cited from: The Doors: Queen of the Highway. In: same: Morrison Hotel. Words and music: The Doors. New York: Elektra Entertainment Group Inc., 1970.
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed that little snippet, and have a very nice day  
> V


End file.
